


Our Darker Purpose

by gypsydancergirl (hauntedlittledoll)



Series: 12/21 [1]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Benjamin al Ghul, DCU Big Bang, Gen, Random Literary References for the Win, Shakespeare is My Second Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 13:36:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedlittledoll/pseuds/gypsydancergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having effectively turned all of the former Robins into little more than puppets, Talia has once again gained the ability to pull Damian's strings. Trapped by conflicting loyalties to all parties involved, Damian must choose what is still worth saving--his clone's future or all that is left of the past Robins--before he becomes all Talia once wished him to be. Meanwhile, Ra's has not forgotten earlier slights . . . or his errant descendants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Darker Purpose

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from William Shakespeare's "King Lear."
> 
> Fanart by miki_moo and c2ii can be found here: (http://miki-moo.livejournal.com/38180.html) and here: (http://c2ii.deviantart.com/art/Our-Darker-Purpose-DCU-BIG-BANG-335495186).

**The Prologue**

_“Damian, have you not grown bored with those toys?  Would not new ones suit you better?"  Talia reached out to card a hand through her oldest son's hair.  "Your birthday is coming up after all . . .”_

_Damian had stilled, but he did not immediately speak.  “When it comes to my possessions, Mother,” he finally offered in careful calculation, “I prefer quality over quantity.”_

_Talia laughed, a pretty sound that shook her entire frame, and Damian relaxed marginally.  “Touché, my son; I shall continue to think on it.”  Damian didn’t comment; his fourteenth birthday would undoubtedly be as hellish as the thirteenth before it.  If his mother didn’t test him, Ra’s al Ghul would._

_“Damian,” his mother remonstrated, and he straightened automatically.  “Why don't you take your brother outside?"_

_Benjamin looked up quickly from his place on the other side of Talia.  “I don't want to go outside, Mother,” he protested, childishly as is the special right of the second ‘born.’_

_Benjamin—the name is Hebrew and it means ‘son of my right hand.’_

_In that quiet place inside his head where Damian kept all the things he dare not say out loud, the teenager called the child: Ben-oni—‘son of my suffering.’_

_“It will be good for you, habibi,” Talia coaxed gently.  “Perhaps your brother will teach you something new.”  It is not a request, and Damian nodded obediently, training exercises already springing to mind._

_Benjamin gave in with an exaggerated pout, and Damian held out his arms for the boy, easily swinging his brother onto one hip.  Childish hands clasped around his neck and a sticky-sweet chin brushed against the side of his neck as the dark head came to rest sweetly against his shoulder.  The picture they must make brought a smile to their mother’s face—her sons together and obedient._

_Damian only kept his heart rate and breathing even through sheer force of will.  Though he could never betray his thoughts, it was impossible for the teenager to forget that he held an assassin in his arms._

_“Mother,” Damian nodded cordially before moving as if to leave the room.  He took measured steps, deliberately slowing his pace, waiting, praying for permission . . ._

_"Take your toys with you," his mother commanded only when Damian lingered in the doorway a moment too long.  Damian glanced back warily; the smaller smile—an expression of knowing and indulgence—currently on Talia's face never boded well, but she waved a dismissive hand._

_Sometimes he had to take what he could get.  So Damian shifted Benjamin's weight and commanded the others to follow him._

_Jason Todd and Tim Drake obeyed in silence._

**Part 1**

The Red Hood skipping out in the middle of a fight hardly raised a red flag in the Bat Cave.  Brown was the first to question the lack of activity in the other vigilante's sector after a few nights, and her concerns were promptly dismissed by the powers-that-be.  Damian had scoffed too, but then the girl disappeared her second night investigating alone.

Even Damian would feel a sick sort of shame when they found out that Tim Drake had been the first to go missing weeks beforehand.

Father believed Todd to be responsible.  Damian was confined to the house while both of the Batmen scoured the city for the whereabouts of Red Hood and other former-Robins.  It had chafed, but Damian was maturing enough to obey for a short time period.  At least until Todd could be located, an irritated Damian figured, but never had the opportunity to prove.

Colin's foster parents had called not long after Brown disappeared, inquiring about the red-head's whereabouts from the only friend Colin had.  Damian had no answers for them.

Grayson tried to reason with Damian's father then; even granting the potential back-sliding, Jason had no reason to take a random teenager off the streets.  But Father was stubborn, and it took the undefeatable Black Bat calling in a report of being attacked by League-resources to convince the man to investigate other possibilities.

Grayson left Bruce to his theories, packed up Damian and took the twelve year old to Donna Troy for protection.

“No one knows, Li'l D,” his brother had promised with a grin.  “Donna and I are the only ones who know you're here, and you'll be the only one who knows where I am.”  That information had been whispered into Damian's ear with an exaggerated embrace and a completely unnecessary hair ruffle of affection.

Dick disappeared three days later.

Hiding in the Clock Tower to stalk his one-time lover had not been a particularly brilliant plan, but it was the last thing Dick Grayson ever told him, and that knowledge damned Damian in his Father's eyes.

Damian had no choice but to run, and once he did . . . Talia had him.

No, Talia had him before that.  Damian just didn't realize it until he was standing in his mother's favorite retreat surrounded by the missing (sans Colin—Damian wouldn’t learn of his friend’s fate until later).  Damian didn't understand until his mother began to explain what she had done, what Grandfather had somehow overlooked—no, _permitted_ by taking no action for or against.  The fragile truce between Ra’s and Talia was no excuse for the things his mother had done.

“It was so easy, darling,” she explained, looking for all the world like a classical Madonna figure with Benjamin clasped sweetly in her arms.  “So easy to scoop out their . . . personality.  Their troublesome willpower.”

They stand at attention, lined up by size and dressed in the dark uniform of a common ninja.  His siblings, friends and enemies who have never stood completely united—not even once—are silent.  Old squabbles have been forgotten, and Damian looked to his mother for an explanation that made sense.  All he got was poetic propaganda.

“They've been rewritten, and now . . .” she smiled at him benevolently.  Talia’s once-disgust was obscured by satisfaction and pride.  She honestly considered this a gift.  “Now, they are acceptable companions, my son.”

“Tt—you are describing a lobotomy, Mother,” he had scoffed, uneasy in the presence of a silent Grayson.  “What use would a lobotomized patient be to the al Ghul?”

“Yes and no,” Talia returned.  “Science is not the only means of correcting humanity’s faults.  You should know these things, Damian.”

“They would fall apart without automatic bodily functions,” Damian argued, sharply.  Magic had a cost that not even the Lazarus Pit can circumvent entirely.  “Even the most diligent of minders cannot verbally command every breath, step, and bowel movement.  Decomposition would be apparent by this stage,” he concluded, watching hungrily for any sign of weakness on his mother’s face.

“Do you truly think the sciences and magics are so limited?”

“Tt—they are merely hypnotized . . . nothing more.”

Talia raised one delicate eyebrow, and there was no further banter—just the cold ugly facts of a functioning body capable of the famed quadruple somersault without the troublesome heroics of which Talia so disapproved.

Damian still hadn't believed her until she set the puppets on each other.  Until Drake's hands were locked around Grayson's throat, and then Damian couldn't get between them fast enough, his high-pitched refusal earning the same obedience as his mother's commands.

It seemed as if Damian would never escape the legacy of the al Ghul name.

*****

Damian was a terrible caretaker even by his own reckoning.  He had never been in charge of keeping something alive in his life unless one counted Grayson who had possessed no survival instinct whatsoever.  Damian didn’t count Grayson—primarily because Pennyworth was the one that kept Batman and Robin from imploding or exploding (or both).  There was no butler to turn to in the League of Assassins.

Damian would have to suffice.

If his behavior satisfied his mother, then a daily allotment of the pills that kept his siblings alive were provided each morning.  Without the pills, the others would slip into convulsions and eventually die as Colin had.  The venom had altered Colin’s metabolism, Damian knew and attributed the failure of Mother’s plan in the redhead’s case to that fatal flaw . . . but only after seeing Colin with his own eyes.  Video footage could be altered, Mother’s account seemed unreliable, and Damian had refused to accept his friend’s death until convinced by his own senses.

No amount of apologies could bring that erratic venom-driven pulse back.

With the loss of Colin, Damian guarded the former Robins fiercely.  He designed his own security, maintained the weapons used by any of them personally, and tasted every dish of food delivered to his quarters.  It wouldn’t stop Talia if she truly wanted them dead; she could just as easily poison the medication that Damian dared not interfere with or simply withhold the pills.  However, there was so little that Damian was capable of doing; he needed to do this small thing.

He had to do something.

Damian had immediately purchased high-class clothing in colors that he knew the others had favored, marking their status as part of Damian’s retinue, replacing and updating that clothing as necessary.  The former-Robins were not common ninja, expendable and unremarkable.  They were his father’s chosen-children, siblings that Talia would not acknowledge (that Damian had once refused to acknowledge).  They were his.  Damian would have them in what comfort he could manage.

Pennyworth had encouraged him to read of Kings that made themselves less than their subjects, serving the servants, and earning the devotion of their followers.  Damian thought it to be bad politics, but he had seen his Father in those pages.  Grayson.

He thought that mimicking such selfless behavior might make up for the things he couldn’t change . . . or at least be a pleasing emulation of his mentor.  So Damian continued Todd’s habit of dying the ginger hair dark (for Todd’s comfort, not because the reddish roots reminded him painfully of Colin).  He paid a servant to teach him how to braid Brown’s hair, and Damian always cared for every injury with his own hands.

Two scant months of penance paid.  An eternity to go.

*****

_This is what the other Robins remember._

_This is what Steph remembered after everything._

_Steph had the most mental command and interaction just before breakfast and the daily dose of Talia’s zombie drug.  Even though she was merely an observer in her own body, she could reassure herself about the others continued-safety in those early morning hours._

_The first thing that Damian did every morning was brush and braid Stephanie’s hair.  Every morning, the sexist little brat sat down and tended to the long hair that Damian had always considered an inconvenience and a hazard.  He never cut it short as he had so often threatened in the Cave so briefly shared, and he never left it the wild bush that Steph usually woke up to prior to Talia’s interference._

_Steph had never taken that kind of pride and care in her own appearance; balancing efficiency with presentation was a must in their line of work.  Ponytails and messy up-dos are a girl’s best friends after all.  After Cass of course._

_Even after two years of reenacting Rapunzel on a daily basis, Steph still couldn’t make up her mind.  When the opportunity finally came, should she kiss the kid or steal his sword to cut her hair short again in a grand gesture of independence?_

** Part Two **

It was on an errand for Mother that Damian saw the familiar cowl once more. For a moment, Damian had hope. Todd was with him; this would be the evidence that could sway Father. Batman would believe him now, and help Damian rescue the others.

His former target slipped away, and Damian barely noted the side street that the rogue slipped down. Guiding Jason after him with exacting commands, Damian rejoined his father a top the nearby roof. A woman tending her rooftop garden in the shade of evening disappeared below when the Batman and a boy in black stared at her expectantly, the dark giant of yet another man hovering as if Damian’s shadow.

Superstition was alive and well throughout the world.

“I found them,” he told the Batman. “I found them, and Mother has . . . she . . .” Damian paused to reorder his thoughts. “I do not know what exactly she has done, but they are broken. I do not know how to fix this.”

Batman waited silently.

“They have no will of their own, and Mother says that it is permanent. I . . . I do not believe her, of course. It cannot be permanent.” Damian turned to Todd, intending to demonstrate the pliability of the formerly stubborn villain.

He’s stopped short by a black gauntlet on his shoulder, the sweeping shadow of a cape that could swallow Damian up in the depths of enhanced fabric, legend and legacy. As close as his father was, Batman didn’t look at Damian. He didn’t look at Todd. The thinned white-out lenses of the cowl gazed over their heads in solemn exhaustion.

“You have done enough.”

And Damian hadn’t . . . hadn’t done nearly enough to make up for what his mother had taken. He knew his debt, and Damian would honor it.

“I saw what was done to the Wilkes boy,” Batman continued, and that stung. “Your mother has shown me everything.”

“Everything?” Damian echoed, mimicking the weight of his father’s words unconsciously. He had learned over the years that his Father and Mother had different definitions of such words. Neither definition suited Damian.

“No. More. Lies.” The hand on his shoulder pushed Damian back a scant few inches, its owner withdrawing an equal distance until they are two figures again rather than one. “Where is your brother?”

Brother. Not brothers. An unsettling concession from the man Damian had come to know as his father. Benjamin. Not Grayson, Todd, Drake or Brown.

Damian tensed. “What do you know of Benjamin?”

His clone is practically an infant—a source of pain to Damian and a problem not yet solved—but scarcely two years of age. Even without Damian’s lies of omission, and especially considering Talia’s network of resources, what could a toddler do to land on the Batman’s radar?

“I know that you and your mother tried to hide him from me. I know that Ra’s al Ghul somehow managed to silence Tim, and I know that he is my son. I know the way that Talia raised you, and it will not befall another child. I will not allow it.”

Drake. Of course it was Drake and his habit of committing dangerous information to the untrustworthy machines at his disposal.

Damian could not back up any further without running into Todd and beyond the larger man is the end of the rooftop. “He’s a clone. Mother cloned him from me so that he could be better, so that he could supersede me. He is a _replacement!_ ” That knowledge burned, and Damian calmed himself, latching fingers into the soft material of Todd’s tunic where his Father couldn’t see. Twisting of words is a family trait—as is inflicting emotional pain. “What kind of parents replace their children?” Damian prodded Todd back a step. “Mine.”

The lines of exhaustion at the corners of his father’s mouth twisted into something else.

Damian doesn’t care; it’s too uncomfortable to empathize with Drake and Todd for any length of time. His father hasn’t even acknowledged Todd; it’s like the man thinks the others are already dead. “If you want Benjamin, just try and find him.”

“Dami—”

With a hard-shove, Damian sent both himself and Todd over the edge.

_“—an!”_

At least that got a reaction, Damian considered as he hauled himself over the railing of the balcony below. It was almost worth the way that Todd’s weight had dislocated his shoulder. At least the Batman didn’t think Damian dead. A villain, perhaps, but not dead.

“You could have saved us all,” he whispered even though there was no one to hear him but Todd.

*****

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

At one time, Damian had thought himself capable of saving Benjamin. He thought that if Grayson could win over Damian's younger self, then surely Damian would be capable of converting a mere toddler. He had an intimate knowledge of an assassin's upbringing, Grayson's example before him, and a seemingly endless span of time as his mother's captive pet. It should have been easy. Damian should have been able to raise a skilled and capable ally in just a few short years—someone capable of helping him save the others and overthrow Leviathan.

Benjamin made any amount of time seem infinitely longer let alone the endless future that lay ahead of Damian. His clone—brother—was not an easy child, but spoiled and indulged in ways that even Damian had not been shown. Talia seemed to take to a more demonstrative form of motherhood the second time around. Benjamin saw her at least once a day, and so—by extension—did Damian. Any rules that the teenager tried to implement were quickly circumvented by the doting mother. The carefully calculated scraps of affection that Damian intended to dole out as rewards were made negligible in comparison to the constant cosseting that Talia freely bestowed upon her second child.

Damian refused to acknowledge jealousy, preferring to let resentment and anger simmer.

His role as Benjamin's bodyguard seemed a mere formality. There were a few attempts on public outings, and a maid with sloppy habits nearly compromised the security of the entire compound, but the outside world was a distant threat. If not Damian, there were other guards, servants, tutors . . . no, Damian was pretty much here to protect Benjamin from the Batman.

Bruce Wayne in the guise of the Bat had made every attempt to locate and retrieve his second son. The diligence of this obsession made life in Talia’s care a somewhat transient experience. Damian had lived in France, Egypt, Japan, and Romania in just the scant few months before his thirteenth birthday alone. Often, Damian made a sudden trip to a new location with Benjamin under the ‘care’ of one of his siblings. Jason was ideal for this—his bulk and silence off-putting to even the most well-meaning of middle-aged women and some of the more questionably-motivated individuals. Mostly, he provided a suitably-sized obstacle to Benjamin’s independence. The innocents who had the misfortune of traveling with the undercover heirs of the al Ghul line didn’t deserve any more exposure to Benjamin than absolutely necessary.

A wiser detective might stop pursuing Talia, and look into other patterns surrounding Leviathan.

Batman never did well without a Robin at his side.

Out of sheer contrariness, Damian never made a move towards Gotham during those unsupervised trips. If Bruce Wayne wanted another son, he could find and fight Damian for him . . . or dig the stick out of his ass and do something to save the other Robins. Damian wasn’t particular, but forgiveness is never free.

Besides, if Damian had it his way, the clone would never don the Robin persona. Robin was his, and those that came before him. They had earned it, and his clone couldn’t have that role no matter how miserable such an action might make Talia. The other—unspoken—reason for her retrieval of Damian was so that the older boy might serve as an example to the younger . . . of what Benjamin must never become.

Robin or no Robin, Gotham is a long-distant goal. The real and ever-present threat to an al Ghul was the training and testing itself.

Even there, Benjamin led a strangely charmed life. Unlike those involved with Ra’s al Ghul’s carefully-instrumented raising of Talia or even Damian’s own closely supervised childhood, no master laid a bruise upon Benjamin's cheek—no matter how poorly he conducted himself in battle—for fear of Talia's retribution. Damian, himself, had only once swept the child's feet out from under him in order to prove Benjamin's perceived immortality nonexistent.

There were only three pills on the next morning's breakfast tray. Todd had convulsed for over an hour before Mother relented, and if it had been anyone but Talia's precious favorite . . . Damian is certain he would have buried a sibling.

Benjamin was trained, but untouched. His skills were good (innate talent came with the genes) but untested. What Benjamin wanted, Benjamin received. Unfortunately for Damian, what Benjamin wanted was to shadow the older boy every step of Damian's day if not commandeer his brother's attention entirely. That was alright in the beginning when Benjamin was small enough to carry easily and his behavior amusing. The child's growing independence ran hand-in-hand with a neediness that Damian was reluctant to identify with . . . and both were left unchecked.

Damian tried. He really did.

He took his brother with him on errands, invited Benjamin back to his quarters and tried to interest the younger boy with Damian's few sanctioned projects. It didn't work—despite Benjamin having been cloned directly from Damian, the boys had very little in common. Damian enjoyed engineering and swordplay. Benjamin was devoted to his dogs and his toy armies. When it came to the younger boy’s training, his hand-to-hand skill was alarmingly good for a three year old, and on rare occasions Ra's was summoned to attend those lessons personally.

Benjamin was a bully. With a few words and the flick of a finger, Benjamin could reduce the servants' children to tears. In a rage, only Damian could contain the volatile boy, and caring for Benjamin was time-consuming. Having no responsibilities, Benjamin possessed a great deal of freedom that was rarely put to use. What little free time Damian had, he spent caring for the people that his very existence had crippled. Without the images of his siblings before him, Damian worried that he might crack under the pressure. Or worse, crack Benjamin.

There was no love lost between brothers. Damian followed Benjamin out of duty—not to his mother, and not even to his father—but for the cause of Batman.

Batman was the ideal that Damian had fought for. Bruce Wayne could be a jackass.

Damian followed Benjamin because Dick Grayson would have, because Brown could find something about the assassin child to love (although Damian couldn't imagine what), and even Drake would take responsibility.

Damian was slowly gaining a new appreciation for Grayson. Sometimes, he even told the man so. It was not like the others could ever use this against him.

*****

_This is what the other Robins remember._

_This is what Jason remembered after everything._

_Jason saw a lot of Talia; she liked to comment on how docile he was and how much easier it was to manage him in the zombie-like fog of the living dead. He spent a couple days a week serving as her metaphorical footstool, and in seeing a lot of Talia, Jason saw a great deal of Benjamin. As obnoxious as the spoiled little shit was—the man couldn’t help but like the scarily efficient toddler._

_That bothered him._

_Ten years ago, that was Damian. Six years ago, that was still Damian and Jason walked these same damn halls under his own power without ever noticing the child in their midst. He had been so wrapped up in vengeance and Bruce and what was owed him, that he may as well have been blind._

_He had been angry with Bruce, and affected by the Pit more than most. He didn't regret taking action against his replacement, but Jason would like to think that he couldn't take that out on a kid (it was a lie, always a lie, and meeting Damian just two years later, Jason had a whole host of issues that he'd like to take out on the kid)._

_It was just that Jason really wanted to be the hero that Batman once promised he could be._

_But Jason had gone on his righteous crusade, and unknowingly left an eight year old child to be raised by the League of Assassins._

_Some hero Jason Todd turned out to be._

**Part Three**

“Grandson, might I borrow one of your toys?”  It was not a request, and Ra's only gave further information to torment his pawns: “There's a Russian upstart that I would like very much to dissuade.”

“Of course, Grandfather.  Drake is ever at your command.”  Damian doesn't bat an eye, despite knowing that Ra's will return his predecessor broken if at all.  There have been other missions—Russia and other locations as if anyone other than Talia posed a credible threat to the League.  It was an ugly truth, but Damian had limited power.  He could not afford to waste it on defying the Demon's Head.

It might have been different if Ra's had taken a liking to Brown or favored Grayson.  They might all be dead under such circumstances.

Drake had always been a sacrifice of some kind or another—often of his own choosing—and Damian is simply keeping a Wayne tradition alive.  He chose to think that his predecessor would have insisted upon it were the older boy aware.  Red Robin was always so responsible after all . . . so carefully mature when it ‘mattered.’

The nobility of protecting his hated younger brother would probably have appealed to Timothy Drake-Wayne anyway.

The justification was argued and reestablished repeatedly over the course of the sleepless night.  Damian still agreed with the rationale as he woke yet again around dawn on his thirteenth birthday.  The concept was sound.  The ethics were skewed, but the concept was sound.

It was still sound an hour later when Drake was deposited on his doorstep by an anonymous ninja regardless of the broken form left in Damian’s arms.  Clearly, the Russian upstart was neither currently in Russia nor easily dissuaded.

It was much easier to access medical supplies when his mother is staying in the States.  Damian already had most of what he needed, and he could improvise for what he lacked.

It was easy enough to hoist the older man onto Damian’s bed.  Although currently better fed than Drake ever managed when left to his own devices, the former Robin was naturally small and thin.  The broken nose was set automatically, Damian’s attention held by the erratic breathing, a bleeding head wound, and the unnatural cant of Drake’s wrist.

The ribs were cracked, not broken, and the bruising on Drake’s throat had begun to darken.  His lungs seemed undamaged, thankfully.  Even the vertebrae and larynx were intact despite the pressure of what had clearly been a boot, and Damian wrapped the ribs simply for something to do.  The pressure of Drake’s head against the ruined pillow had stopped the bleeding, and it took forty-seven stitches to close the gash behind the older vigilante’s ear and following the curve of Drake’s skull.

Pennyworth had taught him how to do this.  Tiny neat sutures to minimize scarring that were practiced on Grayson’s lesser wounds and once in the field on an unconscious Todd with Drake’s unnecessary coaching over the comm.

The man Drake had been before—he had repeated directives.  He had gone over steps with a ridiculous attention to detail.  He categorized and limited things to his own expectations and provided undesired coaching with great frequency.  It had been annoying, but Damian could recognize a need for control when he saw it.  Drake had that in common with Damian’s father—the back and forth between silence and speaking.  Drake was just incapable of turning the babble off once he started.

So Damian kept a soft commentary as he worked.  He counted stitches and swore when a ridge of scar tissue made the stitching uneven (Drake’s entire scalp was a mass of scarring, but this injury wouldn’t scar under Damian’s care).  He narrated the entire process, and continued even when he shifted back into Drake’s line of sight.

As long as he had the materials out, he stitched up the wound in Drake’s thigh.  The dislocated shoulder was set to rights easily without a conscious mind to struggle or recognize pain.  The split lip was cleaned, and a missing tooth taken note of, but there was little Damian could do to alleviate those injuries.  There was nothing for the scrapes and bruises but clean and dress them accordingly, and Damian addressed each with the same care he had taken with the head injury.

Breakfast and the pills took brief precedence, but then Damian was back at Drake’s side.

All that remained was the horribly mangled dominant hand.

Damian did not want to touch the delicate muscles and joints.  The responsibility of it all was huge; there were so many tiny bones in the hand and at first glance it seemed as if all of them had been broken.  The broken wrist bent the clawed digit in towards Drake’s torso, and Damian could set and splint the forearm.  That would be easy.  Putting the hand and fingers back into alignment was another story.

Damian closed his eyes and considered his options.

His grandfather could have had Drake treated or at least exposed him to the Lazarus Pit.  That Ra’s never took that step was either a sign of respect to the boy he had once called Detective or a message to Damian.  It could very well be both.  No, Ra’s would not give assistance without requiring repayment.

His mother’s facilities were on the other side of the compound.  Todd could easily carry Drake there, and the doctors would do as Damian commanded.  They were immensely qualified, but morally dubious.  Such an incident would not go unreported.  He would owe his mother a favor, and she held enough of his weaknesses in her hand.

Damian could let the hand heal in the current deformed shape.  Drake wouldn’t feel the pain, and such a disability would significantly lessen his worth to Ra’s al Ghul.  Continued use of the hand was very much at stake, and the loss would save Drake in the short run, but if Drake ever recovered his senses . . . nothing could undo Damian’s choice.

As if there was ever a choice; Damian was in debt.

It took a few more moments to decide upon the best way to accomplish his task.  Damian had to rearrange Drake on the bed, pushing his predecessor into a supported seated position, bending the undamaged leg and sitting as closely as possible without jarring the other.  He took a heavy (likely valuable) book that had been a gift from his mother and used the broad leather-bound surface as a makeshift table.

Drake’s hand must be splayed flat, and Damian could feel the grind of bone and the occasional crack under his touch.  Drake was silent, and Damian returned to his monologue to fill the silence.

“My grandfather could have healed you, Timothy,” he muttered.  “He likes you.  You are useful.  So why does he leave you broken for me to fix every time?”

The hand finally laid flat against the book, and Damian pressed the bones just above the wrist into alignment quickly.  It was always wiser to begin large and work one’s way down rather than risk the upset of the minutiae work upon one final correction.

“None of this is as bad as it looks,” Damian scoffed, feeling along the line of Drake’s thumb and index finger.  “It must have hurt a great deal and perhaps could have damaged you psychologically if you were actually in control.  This looks like torture,” Damian gestured at the hand, “but it is certainly not fatal.  What does my grandfather want from this Timothy?”

Four broken fingers, three dislocated, and there was clearly damage to the third and fourth metacarpal.  Veins stand out darker than ever under Drake’s pale skin and the only blood comes from a torn away nail on the smallest finger.

“Honestly, it looks as if you lost a battle with a meat grinder and slammed your hand in a door for good measure,” Damian scolded, losing his train of thought as he carefully, slowly realigned the tiny bones one-by-one.  “What have you been doing?”

Damian must go slowly.  He must take his time and do this right.

Unfortunately, this gave Damian plenty of time to consider what Ra’s al Ghul might be hoping to accomplish by this regular habit of borrowing and then returning Drake in non-fatal pieces.  The only thing Damian possessed of any value to his grandfather was Drake, and the Demon’s Head already borrowed the man freely.  This could only be a test of some sort, and Damian never fully understood the points that his mother and grandfather were trying to make.

“Tt—and on my birthday too,” Damian murmured.  As if his birthday ever meant anything else in this world.

He doesn’t know when Drake’s birthday is—sometime in the summer, July maybe—but he hadn’t cared before.  He couldn’t even pin down the season of Todd’s or Brown’s date of birth.  No way to celebrate if he did have the specifics.

It was immaterial.

Damian hummed low in his throat and cut his new drawing pencils down to the appropriate lengths for splinting Drake’s fingers.

*****

_This is what the other Robins remember._

_This is what Tim remembered after everything._

_Tim fought every step of the way.  He wrestled against harming Dick on Talia’s command.  He struggled stubbornly for two years as his body took orders from the little demon.  He waged a tiresome battle every time Ra’s al Ghul toyed with the metaphorical leash.  He fought a futile war every time he killed under the Demon’s Head._

_He wanted out._

_Ra’s al Ghul knew it.  He sought out Tim’s company on missions that any competent ninja could handle, and spent the time prodding at the barriers erected by Talia’s drug.  Tim was a time bomb, and Ra’s knew it.  Ra’s left him in the midst of Leviathan with total access to the Demon Head’s unwitting descendants._

_Tim had been fighting the whole time. He thinks that might be why he recovered the fastest the one and only time the convulsions fully played out. He managed to come off the floor upon coming to. It resulted in a spectacular face plant as his shaky body refused to recover as fast as his mind. It was an improvement though: Jason was twitching as his higher metabolism burned through the drugs at a faster rate, but Dick was motionless—drugged again—and Steph still convulsing._

_If Tim could just gain control . . . he had a plan._

_In the meantime, he could only let his surroundings taunt him with simple math—there were four other bodies on the floor. Damian in an unconscious heap between Dick and Steph, three white pills fallen from his hand and a pool of vomit under his chin. The teenager was bruised, bloody, and Tim didn't know what had happened here._

_There was a plan. Technically, there were several plans: crush the pills (Talia could bring more at any time), check on Steph, and as soon as he could make intelligible sound . . . call for Kon._

_Tim just had to be patient and wait for full feeling to return to his limbs. He needed to allow the drugged cloud to clear, and his senses to work for him instead of against him._

_Damian's lips were turning blue._

_Tim crawled—flailed with direction, more like—and used his body as leverage to push Damian away from the vomit and into a rough approximation of the recovery position (his fingers are stiff and numb . . . they won't work, and Tim was worse than useless without his hands). The movement staggered the former vigilante, his vision disappearing in a kaleidoscope of red, black, and gold. It was the uniform gone wrong and the scent of blood was too strong to exist solely in his memories._

_In preventing asphyxiation, Tim had opened a wound that Damian's dead weight must have been keeping sufficient pressure on. There was a gaping hole in Damian's side under the blood-smeared hand, and Damian must have known that he needed medical attention, Tim decided as he listed to the side. His vision was starting to clear again. Bloodstained tile, vomit smeared across the teenager's face (it's not bloody and that means his organs are probably more or less intact—Tim knew these things from experience), and the last three little white pills just beyond the cleaner hand's finger tips._

_Tim hated those pills. They stole his willpower every morning._

_Damian didn't know that. The teenager was under the impression that those pills were the only thing keeping them all alive, and he'd risked his own life to ensure the others received their 'medication.' With a growl that didn't even remotely sound like Timothy Drake once had, Tim pushed his small, otherwise-useless hand into the gap._

_It was sufficient to stop the blood flow._

_It meant Tim couldn’t fight back when Talia arrived with her doctors, but his little useless hand saved Damian’s life._

*****

“Grandson, might I borrow one of your toys?”

Damian turned to face his grandfather.  “I am afraid Drake would be quite useless to you in his present condition.”

That seemed to surprise the Demon’s Head; it’s a new step in their little game.  He paused, tilting his head as if to better see Damian from a new angle, and then continued:  “One always has a few uses for a Detective.”

“Perhaps you should consult the one in Gotham,” Damian returned modestly.

“With his son and heir at hand,” Ra’s marveled deceptively, “I should think not.”

“You should know that the Batman would not recognize me as such, Grandfather.”  Damian crossed his arms, intending to wait the Demon’s Head out.  “I have it on good authority that he also considers me a poor detective.”

“No detective is infallible,” Ra’s shrugged easily; there’s a new casualness about the man that sets Damian’s teeth on edge.  He attributed it to the current form Ra’s held, although perhaps even Ra’s al Ghul can adapt.  “I know a great many things that the Detective does not know.  Even more wonders that you are not yet aware of, Grandson.”

Damian gave a dismissive snort.  He would not do so in front of his mother, but Ra’s al Ghul could not retaliate here in the current stronghold of the Leviathan.  He was not as powerful as he had once been.

“Uninterested, Grandfather,” and Damian left it at that, bowing out of habit before turning and walking away.

He almost reached the end of the hallway when Ra’s called out after him in the regal quiet of the command of the Demon’s Head: “Even if what I know is the reason your father will not welcome you home.”

It was not a question.  Ra’s al Ghul was incapable of asking questions to which he did not already know the answer.  Damian wanted more than anything to understand why his Father would not believe him over Talia.  What had his mother shown the man to convince him of Damian’s disloyalty?

Ra’s smiled.  “Come walk with me, Grandson.”

*****

They ‘walked’ in the garden, quietly at first with only the half-heard steps of the bodyguard that Ra’s had brought with him for the visit, and then they talked of treason.  It had been most enlightening, even if Damian already knew some of the delicate rebellions on both sides.

Talia and Ra's had reached an uneasy truce long ago.

That wasn't to say the Demon's Head was without rules while in Talia's domain.  His visits were encouraged, but Ra's was limited to a single guard whilst in his daughter's territory.  It was a bitter pill for the man to swallow given his loss of the White Ghost.

Damian was painfully reminded of the cautionary tale of King Lear, and felt Talia's sense of security was hyperbolic at best.

Damian never suggested as much to his mother; he wasn't there to serve Talia or Leviathan.  His loyalties lay elsewhere.  He had other responsibilities to consider when playing his ancestors’ games.  As long as the Robins lived, Damian was leashed.  It made no difference to him who held the chain, but it could be life or death for the others.

Ra's al Ghul liked to play with a full hand of cards.

At the moment, the Demon’s Head seemed content with just Damian.  His plan was simple enough; undermine Talia’s organization from within while whittling away any opportunity for growth from without.  Ra’s had been ‘taking care of’ the opposition and thus, any organization powerful enough to make a worthy ally for a few years.  Damian would ensure that the rumors of Talia’s inability to lead were fanned into flames powerful enough to bring Leviathan down.

“Your mother believes that she has successfully won you over, little Demon,” Ra’s told him, almost affectionately.  “She believes that you will stay where she has put you and do as she commands while she raises her new little prince.  Your mother thinks that she controls all, but she is mistaken.  She does not control your thoughts,” Ra’s raised a hand to Damian’s head, brushing against the teenager’s temple gently before bringing the hand to his own face.  “She does not control the Demon’s head,” Ra’s smiled again at the play on words.

“Mother wants us to be a family,” Damian said simply.  “Is it so hard to play those roles, Grandfather?”

“Is it so hard to live your father’s law in the home of your mother?” Ra’s returned knowingly.

Damian bit back a reply that would win him nothing.

“Suppose we do as you propose and grant my daughter her wishes for just a little longer,” Ra’s suggested after a few moments later.  “Surely, it is good for a man to spend time with his fatherless grandsons—to take them under his wing and train them in the ways of men?”

“Tt—Mother has very little use for men in her new world order, Grandfather,” Damian replied.  “Have you not noticed the favor granted to St. Hadrian’s?  Or her preferred retinue?  Look at Todd, her footstool or the manbats that make up her expendable army.”  Damian stared out over the flowers that Talia had so little time for, but kept up in her more public homes.  “I am not entirely sure why she bothered with Benjamin or myself at all.  Any number of scientists could guarantee her gender selection and a daughter to sculpt in her own image.”

He tried to shake off that haunting notion.

“No, that would not be an argument to serve Mother at all.”

“I believe, Grandson, that the irony is the main appeal.”  Ra’s began to walk once more.  “You, the very vision of your Father being raised in our world with blood on your hands and the terrible clash of separate creeds in your very genes, are both everything your Mother and I wished for at the time of your creation and a possible undoing of our line.  So if you will assist me in bringing down my errant daughter, I will offer you a choice as your reward.”

Damian waited quietly.

“When my daughter has fallen, you may rejoin your Father in Gotham with the knowledge of how he was tricked—no, I will not give it to you now—and be Robin once more . . . or, my dear little one, you may stay with me as my heir once more, a trusted and valued member of my organization.”

That was an alarming concession either way.

Damian hesitated.  “The others?”

“A dreadful waste of talent,” Ra’s sniffed.  “I have no use for them now without a capable handler.  Already, I have had to execute the few half dozen to whom I entrusted the younger Detective in my quest for your attention because of their failure.  The former heroes are yours.”

“Benjamin?  Is he your next vessel?”

Ra’s snorted.  “Do you remember the implants your Mother once had placed in your spine?  Did the Detective have them removed?”

No, the implants from that misadventure had stayed firmly lodged in his spinal cord.  Pennyworth said that to remove them could very well kill Damian.  That natural growth could very well paralyze the young Robin for life if even one implant was a millimeter flawed in placement.

“Grayson destroyed her machines.”

“Machines can be rebuilt.  Scientists remember or relearn, and the al Ghul live for a very long time.”

Damian suddenly felt cold.  If his mother could take over . . .

Ra’s stopped him this time, two strong hands wrapped around Damian’s shoulders.  “She has no need of further method to pull strings, Grandson.  Not at the present, but as a reminder that it can be developed, she had those implants placed in your brother’s spine as well.  That particular process was not lost.”  He let go of Damian.  “I will not take a vessel another could control.  There is time, and there are other descendants.”

That particular tidbit did not surprise Damian, although he would wager his mother remained unaware.  “Then why me?”

“Irony, little Demon,” Ra’s al Ghul teased, and Damian found it as discomfiting as the man’s ability to shrug.  A grandfather prone to ridiculous and generous gifts, grand gestures certainly, but nothing so mundane as gentle teasing.  The Demon’s Head must miss Drake’s wit indeed.  “To answer your other question, Grandson, Benjamin, I will also make a gift to you regardless of your choice.  Send him to Gotham, stow him away safely, or keep him at your side—I would see what you make of your match.”

“What must I do?”

“Continue as you are now.  Tend to your brother, fulfill my daughter’s orders, and listen before you speak.”  That was pointed; a lesson hard-won only after years in Gotham which Damian must now prove to his Grandfather as well.  “Play my daughter’s game, and in the hour when she is certain of her triumph over your spirit, you will defect to my side . . . leaving Talia al Ghul with nothing to show for her obsession with Bruce Wayne and nowhere for Leviathan to grow under her hand.”

“You want Mother to return to you,” Damian realized.

“She is my daughter,” Ra’s acknowledged.  “I love her still as my greatest treasure.”

“But you intend to kill her,” Damian murmured, uneasily taking in the garden.  It’s his mother’s favorite place for secrets, free of all surveillance, and that is why Ra’s has chosen to ‘walk’ here.

Ra’s is quiet for several long moments.  “I do.  My daughter has suffered much at my hand and at the hands of others.  Mistakes have been made, damage has been done, and I have allowed all of it to happen.  Obsession now clouds what was once interest.  Love has been twisted, perverted, by betrayal, and I own a portion of that lie as does the Detective.  My lovely daughter is not all she once was, and I would not have her suffer needlessly.”

Damian remembered his mother differently once upon a time.  She was distant, and Damian a trophy at times, but there were moments when she had touched his hair in the way that she stroked Benjamin’s.  There were occasions when her manipulations were sweet as honey, and he believed her willingly enough as a child.  She loved him in her own way even as nothing went according to plan once she involved his father.

She was his mother, and Damian loved her.

“Death is cheap, little Demon,” Ra’s offered.  “Think about it, Grandson, you will know the moment when the decision must be made.  I will continue.  My visits will not be altered, and your little flock will be safe if you attend to my missions alongside them.  Leave your Mother’s fate until the time comes and her fight crumbles.”

“Mother calls it a war,” Damian reflected.  “The story only ends with either Mother or Father dead.”

“No, Damian,” his grandfather corrected.  “This is your story and it begins and ends with who you are.  It asks, w _hat will you become?_ ”  Ra’s tucked his own knife into Damian’s belt.  “It will end when you can answer that question alone.”

** Part Four **

_This is what the last Robin remembered._

_This is what Damian remembered before everything._

_He woke up on his twelfth birthday to giggling and the heavy scent of maple syrup.  He’d yelled something vaguely threatening because being woken at three in the morning after patrol was not a winning scheme.  Completely unrepentant at losing the element of surprise, Brown called back down the hall about making the waffles herself._

_They were probably safe to consume in that event; Brown made half-way decent waffles._

_It seemed fitting that half of their celebrations took place before the sun rose.  Damian had returned from patrol (and the novel experience of an ice cream cone courtesy of Todd) to find a new bike in the Cave.  Well, most of the new bike and a promise of assistance in modifying it appropriately from his father.  Damian quite looked forward to the project.  Now he was eating waffles in the dark a mere hour later with the certainty that there would be yet more food by breakfast._

_The darkened slouching figure in his doorway honed in on him with unerring accuracy, collapsing against Damian’s back.  “Steph said you had waffles?” Grayson asked blearily._

_“Get your own.  These are mine,” Damian sniped and shoved his mentor, but with neither malice nor effect.  Grayson draped himself more comfortably over Damian’s shoulder and made a plaintive deprived noise in Damian’s ear until the younger boy fed him a bite to shut him up.  Dick hummed appreciatively and rested his head atop Damian’s._

_“She seriously made you waffles at three AM?”_

_Drake—as put together and alert as Grayson wasn’t—leaned against the door frame.  Damian swallowed, and smirked at his predecessor.  “Jealous, Drake?”_

_“Yes, Damian,” he could practically hear the rolling of eyes as Drake peeled himself away from the support and crossed the room to take a seat on the foot of Damian’s bed.  “I’m extremely jealous of the fact that my ex-girlfriend broke into the Manor and woke all of us up by making you waffles at three AM.”  Drake nudged the tray with his knee.  “Well, maybe just a little bit.  She could have at least made waffles for the rest of us.”_

_“It is not your birthday,” Damian informed him smugly, taking another bite._

*****

The problem of being a genius was that one’s clone often manifested the same level of intelligence.  Benjamin was ever finding new and creative ways into Damian’s closely guarded quarters.  Security was, of course, an illusion under his mother’s watchful eye, but it would be nice if his younger brother refrained from proving it so readily.  Damian invented new blockades, and Benjamin inevitably found ways around them over time.

Aside from the annoyance, it was a fairly generic offense that seemed mostly harmless.  Sometimes Damian would return to find Benjamin wearing his cloak or examining the weaponry at Damian’s disposal.  It was amusing and somewhat evocative of an eight year old boy wearing pieces of an older brother’s costume.  Not the same certainly; Damian had other motivations for donning the red tunic.

But it was innocent . . . until the day it wasn’t.

It was only a few days past Benjamin’s fourth ‘birthday’ that Damian returned to his quarters to find Benjamin had bypassed the security measures once again.  He wasn’t expecting the scent of burning flesh.

“What are you doing?” Damian demanded, throwing open the door that divided his bedroom from the rest of his quarters.  “Stop it!”

Benjamin flinched as Damian descended, knocking the lighter from the younger boy's hand.  Brown didn't move, and Damian cradled her hand in both of his to keep from further striking out against the clone.

Benjamin's hand was inexperienced.  The burns were mostly superficial, and Damian would treat them as soon as he could successfully evict the little monster from his quarters.

“You have hurt her,” Damian accused, and he could not stop the lessons learned in his father's shadow from spilling forward.  “She cannot harm you, cannot defend herself in any way.  It is not worthy of a Bat to injure the innocent.”

Benjamin scowled, still massaging his wrist.  “I am not a Bat.  I am Benjamin al Ghul.”

Damian stared at him.  When he found his voice, it had dropped an octave—suiting the occasion for once instead of breaking in the emotion of the moment—and sounded to Damian’s chagrin, uncannily like his father’s through no effort of his own.  He persevered, nonetheless.

“Should that name mean something to me?”  This was not a lesson that Damian learned in Gotham.  This was a lesson that had been drilled into his head from early childhood, the first thing that Ra's al Ghul had ever said to his daughter's bastard child.  “What have you done?  Who have you defeated?”

Benjamin blinked.

“You can burn a living creature that you command.  Well done, Benjamin al Ghul.  Well done,” Damian allowed his voice drip with the sarcasm that once colored everything Drake had ever said to him.  “Do you believe I should respect you for that, little master?” and there was the dry tone of Pennyworth on Damian's most trying days.

A Wayne no longer.

Never again to be Robin.

His mother's captive.

Damian was still his own man, and the men that he chose to emulate had earned his respect.  Benjamin may be Damian's clone, but he would have to earn that respect . . . if his replacement was even capable of doing so which Damian doubted.

Damian pulled together everything that he had ever learned at Ra's al Ghul's knee or in Bruce Wayne's shadow, and held out his hand.  “Fetch the lighter.”  When Benjamin didn't move, Damian let the Batman bleed into his voice: “Now.”

Benjamin scrambled for it, pausing a defiant moment with it reclaimed, but reluctantly gave in and placed the tool in Damian's outstretched hand as commanded.

Damian held out his left hand, and brought the flame directly under his palm.  Waiting a moment to be sure that he had Benjamin's full attention; Damian raised the flame to his hand.

Benjamin cried out.  Damian held the burn steady and issued his challenge with the carefully measured voice that Grayson so often used to reason with a childish Damian:  “When you can take the pain you wish to inflict, I'll respect you enough to fight you without holding back.”

“You . . . you don't hold back.”

Damian grinned, tossing the lighter aside and turning his hand over to display the star-shaped burn in blackened skin radiating outward from the center of his palm.  “I was trained by both of the Batmen.  I could hold my own in a fight with Red Robin and even the Red Hood.  I survived two years in Gotham with a damn bounty of half a billion on my head.  Little master,” he intoned mockingly, “I am _always_ holding back.”

“You're bluffing.”

“As you like, Benjamin,” Damian waved dismissively.  “Now go away.”

The performance must have been effective, because Benjamin edged away from Damian, his footsteps turning into the soft patter of a barefoot run once the boy is out in the hall.

There would be consequences.  Even if Benjamin didn’t run straight to Talia, Damian knew that some damage had been done to his fragile standing in the boy’s eyes, but maybe some good had been accomplished.  He would ruminate on it later; other priorities pressed for his attention now.

Once he was certain that Benjamin had gone, Damian plunged his hand carelessly in a nearby vase that had been filled with water from the Lazarus Pits.  Such vessels littered the estate with eternal blooms, and the water sufficed to care for Damian’s own wounds.  He would not, however, expose his siblings to a single drop of the tainted water.  Damian would treat Brown’s injuries personally with the precious medical supplies he hoarded from the missions gone awry.

Fetching the medical kit and clean water, Damian returned to the blonde girl’s side.  “I apologize, Stephanie,” was the formal reparation, the only way he can atone aside from the careful tending of her hands.  It fell short as so many of Damian’s gestures do, and he was generous with the burn salve instead.  “Benjamin does not know any better, and I will find more useful things to occupy his time.”  He secured the wrappings on her left hand, and cradled it in both of his.

“He will not harm you again, Stephanie.  I will not allow it.”

It was a worthless promise.

“Tt,” Damian looked away from the blank blue eyes, settling on the loose blonde hair instead.  “Your hair is in complete disarray,” he grumbled reaching for the hairbrush and comb.  Stephanie’s long blonde hair was prone to escaping the confines of any hairstyle, but braids somewhat prolonged the inevitable.

Damian carefully smoothed Stephanie’s hair, separated the first three sections, and began to weave the intricate design.  Damian did nothing halfway.  His siblings were valuable.  It would not do for Leviathan or the League of Assassins to forget it.

*****

Damian’s speech had made some impact on Benjamin, although the exact sway was hard to measure.  Benjamin avoided him for a few days, but Damian had been occupied with problems belonging to the Demon Head.  He certainly hadn’t missed having his younger brother underfoot during the struggle to coordinate all four of the other Robins in an attack on the foreign embassy.

He had originally only intended to take Drake with him as he usually did when working for his grandfather, preferring to keep Grayson and Brown safely sequestered in his rooms.  They were his closest allies before all of this, and Damian hated to risk them in service to either Leviathan or the League.

Given his shaky standing within the family after lashing out at Benjamin, this time he had been reluctant to leave the others in Talia’s ‘care.’  The pill supply had not yet been altered, but Damian found it hard to settle for the day until the pills had been administered and his siblings survived the experience.

The mission had been a tricky operation.  Damian was not used to directing Grayson’s movements—his former Batman had always directed him with the soft little verbal quips and the code-words that the older man had favored.  It was an unusual role reversal, but Damian had risen to the occasion.

The building had been burned down, no civilian casualties had occurred, his siblings were unharmed, and the ninjas were murmuring superstitiously to themselves in the Robins’ wake.  It was, Damian considered, good to be a growing legend.

Having had the opportunity to eat, wash, and sleep, Damian was in a good enough mood to report to his mother.  It pleased her, made her more complacent, and while Talia demanded obedience—she never required him to grovel.  Damian could better assess her mood, and perhaps Benjamin’s interpretation of their earlier encounter through the meeting.  Then he could track down his brother and . . . what was the phrase Pennyworth once suggested?

_Play nicely._

Damian could be nice.  He could play the game, pandering a little bit to Benjamin’s bruised pride and thirst for recognition, and then push the child a step further on Damian’s path.  Gently, of course . . . Damian could be gentle.

He even smirked a little upon finding Benjamin wandering the halls.  “Playing hooky,” he assumed, passing the boy by.  It was Thursday; Benjamin should be at his ill-favored history lesson prior to the lunch hour.  “Or have you ‘misplaced’ your tutor, Benjamin?”

“I killed him,” Benjamin told him simply, ensconced as he was in a game involving his toys and a convenient window sill.

Damian whipped back around.  “What?!”

Benjamin glanced up, his hands tightening around the toys.  “I killed him.  So now, I don’t have lessons.  I don’t like history.”

Damian rattled the glass as he brought his hands down, pinning Benjamin in place against the window.  “Why?”

“It’s boring,” Benjamin scowled, shifting into a ready stance.

“I am not asking why you don’t like history, Benjamin al Ghul,” Damian seethed.  “I am asking why you killed your tutor.”

“He looked at me oddly,” Benjamin shrugged, eyes darting past Damian’s shoulder.

There were all kinds of ugly interpretations of that sentence, things that Damian simultaneously rejected of his old tutor and—even crueler—almost hoped for as if that would absolve Benjamin of guilt in the man’s murder.  It was an excuse that Damian could accept even if their father wouldn’t.

“Explain,” he said instead, because Benjamin’s single sentence can’t convict or vindicate either party.

Benjamin seemed to decide that Damian wouldn’t lose his temper.  It was a premature decision, but at least the boy was less likely to damage either of them in a tussle when he was relaxed.  “He took away my toys.  I told him he shouldn’t do that, but he didn’t listen.  I told him I would kill him, and he didn’t believe me.  He said Mother wouldn’t allow it, but he looked strangely when he said it.”

Fear was more likely than perversion in that case.  Damian had said equally cruel things over his lifetime, and anyone familiar with the al Ghuls should realize that no threat is an empty one.

“Did . . .” Damian struggled to let this terrible sentence out.  “Did you ask Mother?”

Benjamin scowled.  “I don’t have to ask Mother.  He was my tutor, and he wouldn’t listen.  Mother says they should listen.”

“And what did you do when he didn’t listen?” Damian demanded.

“I killed him,” Benjamin repeated simply.  "Mother said it was alright."

Damian stilled. He inhaled and exhaled slow measured breaths for the sake of control.  “What else did Mother say?”

“She told me to go play,” Benjamin held his obviously reclaimed toys aloft.  “Will you play wi—”

“No,” Damian cut him off.  “Go to your rooms. Now.”

Without waiting to see if he had been obeyed, Damian walked away. He found the schoolroom almost by accident, drawn by the bustle of people as much as by his inner turmoil. His mother was inside, holding court like a queen over the medical personnel, her entourage, and the fallen man.

“Benjamin tells me that he killed Monsieur Rene,” he issued curtly.  A crying woman let loose a wail that was only stilled by a wave of Talia’s hand.

“Relax, Damian,” she coaxed, correctly interpreting his mood and extending a hand to stroke his cheek. “The man lives. Benjamin only broke his neck. There's only so much forty pounds of boy can do, my dear.”

Damian glowered—refusing to betray even his relief. “You taught me that only a pound of pressure can cut flesh, Mother.”

“When applied _correctly_ ,” she returned, raising one eyebrow delicately.  It’s as much a critique of Benjamin as a rejoinder to Damian’s barb.

“And how was this applied, Mother?”

Talia pretended not to hear the question, instead directing her currently favored doctors to escort Rene and his wife to the medical facilities.  Damian was soon left alone in the overturned schoolroom.

His mother wouldn’t waste a spine on Rene.  The tutor’s value lay in his mind and he didn’t need mobility for that.  Within the week, he would be reinstalled in the schoolroom and at Benjamin’s mercy.

Would Benjamin make a second attempt?  Damian had made his first kill when he had been only a little older than Benjamin.  His father didn’t think Damian was capable of being saved with blood on his hands.  Even if his brother’s hands were technically clean, was it too late for Benjamin?

Had it really been too late for Damian?

** Part 5 **

This is what the first Robin remembered.

This is what Dick remembered after everything.

"There were two today. They have wronged my mother, and she will not let them live. I could have dispatched them with mercy, Richard, but I still keep Father's commandments. He has turned against me, but I am still a good and useful son. I obeyed my parents, Richard . . . there were two today. I could not save them, but I did not kill them."

It was so twisted a logic, but so uniquely Damian that it wrenched further gut-aching sorrow from Dick.

“I have not seen that servant again.  I think something may have befallen her.”

No mention of what Damian suspected—what Dick understood.  They did not name the perpetrators; someday Damian's name might be among them.

“Timothy came back today half-dead. I do not know what task my grandfather has assigned him, but he is always injured upon his return.  I could have left him to bleed out; I doubt the Timothy Drake we knew would desire continuing on like this.  I know Father believes this, Richard.  I know you . . . but no, Damian Wayne does not kill.  Robin does not kill, and Timothy is still alive.”

Dick didn’t know anything of his siblings when they leave these rooms. He spent almost all day, every day confined to Damian's quarters with only Steph for company.  They could not communicate, or even look at each other without spoken-direction.

When Dick recovers, he is going to sit his honorary sister down for a long chat.  They'll talk until he knows everything about her, and then they'll watch bad movies or bring down a gang war together.  He's going to examine Timmy with his own eyes, and learn the story behind every scar.

“My other brother's tutor almost died today for looking at the boy strangely.  I arrived afterward and could do nothing.  The man will be a quadriplegic for the rest of his life, but he still lives.  Why do I feel as though I must count him otherwise?”

Benjamin was a sore subject, but one that Dick could not wave away or confront.  Sometimes, he was angry with Damian for never mentioning the clone before all of this, for never sharing Talia's twisted plans, and for never intervening.  After everything that Damian had gone through and everything the Bat-family had tried to do for him, how could Damian still be so blind?  Sometimes Dick was regretful, because what would be left of this new son of the Bat by the time everything had been restored to rights?

“There were four today.  They murdered women under my grandfather's protection.  They performed unspeakable acts, and I felt no shame or sorrow in turning them over to the Demon Head for correction.  I may attend their execution, and I won't stop it . . . but I will not kill them even though my grandfather has asked me to see to it personally.  I am still my Father's son, Richard . . . am I not?”

On and on the list went—an unwritten tally between elder and younger brother.  Damian counted them as victories, while Dick held them as losses.

Until the day when Damian did not provide the backstory, did not justify his actions, but just quietly admitted: “Brother, I have sinned.”

*****

_The evening prior to his birthday had been a non-event.  Being summoned to Benjamin’s rooms in the middle of the night did not set off any internal alarm.  No instincts fired on the long walk down the corridor.  He was unprepared._

_The woman was not._

_Reflex saved him from the inexperienced slash of the knife.  Within moments, Damian had disarmed her and held her captive with the cheap kitchen knife at her throat.  Her pulse beat furiously against his wrist, and Damian took the opportunity to place her._

_She was smaller than him, but older—a non-fighter without the calloused hands of a servant.  It was the spectacles that confirm her identity as the wife of Benjamin’s former tutor.  She had fulfilled some function or another at Talia’s side, and evidently remained even after her husband’s accident._

_“I will let you go,” he whispered.  “If you promise to leave and not return.”_

_“I am not a fool,” she hissed back.  “Kill me yourself if you are so merciful, Ibn al Xu’ffasch.”_

_Damian sighed.  His family’s reputation made his offer a mere formality . . . a useless attempt to hold to the traditions of the Bat in the home of the enemy.  The woman was right of course; Talia would have her found and disposed of by morning no matter what Damian did._

_However, it would not be Damian’s hand that performed the deed._

_The teenager glanced at the bed.  “Get up, Benjamin.  I need cord of some kind.”_

_There is no response from the figure under the blankets._

_“Enough,” Damian declared sharply, and when his brother still did not acknowledge his presence, Damian shoved the would-be avenger away from him, automatically tucking the knife in the waistband of his pants as he vaulted a low table to reach his brother’s bedside._

_Unfortunately, the woman had brought a second knife._

_Scarcely had Damian ripped away the blankets than he was forced to dive aside as the knife came down.  Under other circumstances, he might have enjoyed the way triumph turned to confusion at the explosion of a pillow under her blade.  Now, Damian spared only a moment on a nerve strike to put her down._

_He had a brother to find._

_They hadn’t gotten far by the time Damian caught up.  He caught sight of Benjamin’s small frame only two corridors and up a recessed flight of stairs away.  The offenders were a pair of anonymous black-clad underlings (some ninja couldn’t help being completely unoriginal), and Benjamin had obviously slowed them down. Restraints and a gag were only minimally effective against an al Ghul’s tantrum, even if Benjamin would not be trained in escapology for another year.  Smarter ninja would have knocked him out or employed a nerve strike to incapacitate the child.  It wasn’t as if Talia al Ghul would spare a kidnapper’s life for being gentle, and Bruce Wayne was an efficient sort of man, as well as much too tall to be involved in the farcical attempt._

_In fact, the ineptitude shown was almost criminal, and warnings started to go off in the back of Damian’s head._

_A kick to the chin dropped the first to spot Damian.  It was a move learned from Drake, and effective when one’s opponent had the advantage of upper ground.  Perhaps not recommended for use on a narrow staircase, but Damian had trained hard for the mastery of balance.  He successfully diverted the reeling ninja over one shoulder and down the stairs behind him.  He punched the second ninja, needing a more straight-forward plan of attack to minimize the possibility of damage to Benjamin.  The figure was smart enough to minimize the child’s struggle by pushing Benjamin back over one shoulder (fortunate enough to realize wrapping Benjamin al Ghul’s arms around anything was an invitation for death and pain).  A smooth right took down the second captor with just a touch of spin, dropping Benjamin’s writhing form neatly in Damian’s arms._

_He kept moving upward, yanking the gag over Benjamin’s head as he went.  It earned him a loud “Brother!” right in his ear, but Damian was already moving to sidestep the returning scout.  Should have left the younger boy gagged._

_Gunfire ripped past his ear.  Damian promptly threw himself up the last two steps to the first floor of Talia’s current estate and headed left.  The inverted corner offered limited shelter, but Damian took what was available in order to safely stow his still incarcerated brother.  He shifted to the right, using the reflection of the window and his own angle to get a glimpse of the shooters.  There were two, both female and obviously intelligent, as the window shattered before Damian could gain any further information from observation._

_It kept him from finding out whether the third ninja had been killed by the bullets that left him or her in a heap at the bottom of the stairs._

_He had little to dissuade the shooters from following them up the stairs—his knives were concealed about his person, of course, and tucked into his belt was the weapon that he had confiscated from the would-be-assassin downstairs.  Yet, he had nothing on hand that could be safely used to unarm or incapacitate their assailants.  For all of Talia’s fascination with science and grandfather’s approval of more arcane methods, an al Ghul’s training was heavily weighted in favor of tradition and various sharp objects.  Gadgets were strictly the purview of the Bat._

_A smoke bomb—or even one of Brown’s favored ‘gooperang’ abominations—would be useful in this situation._

_Instead, Damian had half a dozen knives, glass shards from the shattered window, his incapacitated younger brother and an expensive rug at his disposal._

_Damian immediately began to roll the edge of the carpet, pulling it swiftly but near imperceptibly across the floor as the clack of heels began to cautiously ascend the steps.  Damian moved quickly, hefting the weight of the rolled rug and wrapping both hands solidly around the end.  As the muzzle of the gun passed the doorway, Damian swung his makeshift weapon out hard across the opening._

_It impacted with at least one body, and Damian released it instinctively, causing a second cry as either the rug or her partner took the second woman down the stairs.  Damian was right behind them, kicking a gun from one outstretched hand within moments of landing upon its owner, and grasping the second before its owner could take aim._

_She scowled at him, but Damian kept the gun pointed towards the ceiling, allowing her to empty the weapon into the stone above.  A ricocheting bullet fragment scored his arm, and a matching burn laced the side of his scalp a few precious centimeters above his left ear.  Damian didn’t release his hold until the click of an empty chamber resounded a few times in the quiet.  The redheaded woman made no move to stop him from dropping her with a nerve strike, and her dark-haired compatriot scarcely had time to groan before Damian was crouched at her side with a knife at her throat._

_“Who sent you?”_

_She laughed a little, and then moaned as the movement upset the delicate equilibrium of an obvious concussion.  “Everyone knows you don’t kill, Damian al Ghul.”_

_Damian buried the knife through the back of her hand, pinning it to the wall she had clearly hoped to use as leverage if he spared her.  “St. Hadrian’s alumnus,” he snorted.  It was apparent from the heels of her shoes to the carefully coiffed hair and what would be a sharpened gaze if her pupils weren’t unevenly dilated.  His mother’s henchwomen, although as distinct and visually unique as the few chosen flowers Talia loved, had a type._

_Had they come to aid Talia’s heirs or were they part of the conspiracy?  Why had they fired on Damian unless they suspected him of being in league with the ninja?  He tired of the power struggle between Talia and Ra’s, always with such complex steps and ever-shifting loyalties._

_“Dami!” Benjamin howled from the top of the stairs, and heaven only knew how the little monster had freed himself from the restraints.  At least he showed a little foresight by not following Damian down the stairs into an uncertain situation.  “Damian, come back!”_

_“Patience is a virtue,” Damian returned dryly, only half-risen when he noticed odd shapes in the night air beyond Benjamin.  His eyes had fully adjusted to the dark before even leaving Damian’s room, but for a moment, Damian thought they betrayed him now.  It was a costly delay.  He lunged for the theoretically still-loaded gun across the hallway, rolling and bringing it up just in time to see Benjamin’s eyes widen as the child was plucked from the exposed hallway above._

_Swearing, Damian found his feet and took the stairs a second time, shooting as he went and diving through the broken window in time to catch Benjamin as the manbat careened towards earth with a perforated wing.  Unfortunately most of the glass had predictably ended up outside the window, and Damian confirmed that detail by landing belly-first amongst the shards._

_Above, more of the failed-experiments circled.  Damian pushed Benjamin upright, lurching upwards after the younger boy.  Though the manbats swooped overhead, they made no move to stop the boys from going back inside.  Damian used the wall as a guide to make his way down the hall until he encountered a low table and more of his mother’s undying flora.  He would have sent Benjamin for the vase, but the pieces were starting to fall into place and Damian preferred his brother within reach.  He upended the vase over his head.  The limited supply and hasty application provided erratic results, but it was better than nothing._

_The manbats seem to have determined that their fellow had survived the fall.  They swooped back and forth outside the long hallway of windows, growing ever braver and closer with each pass.  Damian debated continuing down the hall versus returning the way they came in an attempt to return to Damian’s somewhat-defensible chambers.  Neither choice was without flaw.  It was a good fifty yards further to the end of the hall, and there was the yawning hole of the destroyed window between them and the safety of the underground._

_The manbats, the women from St. Hadrian’s, and ninja like those his mother had been raised amongst—Damian was surprised that she hadn’t sent Todd out to remind her eldest son of his place.  This was Damian’s test, a terrible present to commemorate the occasion of his ‘birth.’_

_What was the right choice?  Is Benjamin bait or an actual target?_

_He chose to return.  The manbats could crash through the windows just as easily as swoop through the current opening, and there was safety to be had in his rooms, amongst his siblings.  Benjamin followed at a mere touch of the shoulder, and Damian took aim each time a creature flew at the windows along their route.  The glass would be ruined either way; he might as well ground the manbats with the destruction._

_He ran out of bullets only a window or two from the stairs.  “Move faster,” he ordered, and Benjamin darted ahead, rounding the corner before two of the manbats swept through the window in a synchronized move that spoke of long-term experience with their mutation.  His mother’s experiments tended to go one of two ways.  Either they adapted the new form to some lingering sense of humanity, growing more intelligent all the while, or they went native—so to speak.  Both outcomes led to a more dangerous, graceful opponent._

_These seemed to be a complementary pair.  One went straight for Damian’s throat, while the other perched from above and simply looked at the teenager._

_A complete set deserved deliberation, beyond the initial strike which Damian used to sever major tendons in the vulnerable wings.  As he pushed the badly-damaged feral creature aside, Damian gave brief consideration to whether or not the water from the Lazarus Pits could undo the fusing of man and beast—and how painful such a process might be.  Unfortunately, his soaked person was all of the substance on hand, and there was still the creature above to contend with._

_Benjamin had found combat below; unconscious ninja didn’t tend to stay that way for long._

_Damian edged carefully towards the stairs, and the intelligent animal allowed it, although its eyes followed his move with the slight cock of the head.  It opened its mouth in a screeching cry, and then something attacked Damian from behind, sinking teeth deep into the meat of his shoulder at the base of his neck.  The intelligent manbat had tricked the teenager, dividing Damian’s attention and keeping it from afar while its ruined fellow attacked from behind._

_The creature took a mouthful of flesh with it as Damian pitched it over his head with enough force to knock the second from its perch.  Then he lurched towards the stairs.  Having them at his back again was a disadvantage should they recover, but while manbats liked the underground areas, they were less keen regarding low ceilings and narrow corridors.  If he was fortunate, it would put them off entirely and he could focus on the other foes._

_One ninja was still lying where he or she had fallen after the run-in with the former St. Hadrian’s students, both of which were still out or otherwise incapacitated.  One was missing, and a third ninja exchanged blows with an alert and angry Benjamin al Ghul. “Alley-oop,” Damian muttered, taking a step back to gain momentum._

_Benjamin hesitated, obviously recognizing the phrase.  So Talia had him studying Damian’s skills; he’s not sure whether he should be honored or offended.  Thankfully, the ninja wasn’t as observant as the little boy, and Damian’s tackle brought him down.  A handful of hood, decent leverage, and Damian slammed the man’s skull into the stone floor a second time.  His opponent didn’t get back up, and Benjamin drifted closer._

_“Is it over?”_

_Damian slapped his free hand over the boy’s mouth.  There was a colony of manbats pinning them down to this level, and the third ninja was still unaccounted for.  He drew a blade, turning slowly and trying to use his senses to assess the threat._

_It was sloppy, but fast._

_Damian was light-headed from loss of blood and the bite burned even as the residual water drenching his shirt began to work.  He was distracted, but when he felt the movement of something past him—heard the near-silent song of a blade—the trained instincts brought him between Benjamin and the assailant.  It was not the other ninja, he realized dimly, but the woman he had found in Benjamin’s quarters.  She had followed, worked her way around, or relocated them, something that put her in the wrong place at the wrong time._

_She was smaller than the expected ninja—more compact in height and weight—and her neck gaped open wide as she stumbled away from his bared weapon._

_It flashed through Damian’s mind in the time it took her to bleed out:  the wife of a scholar, little more than a familiar accountant in Talia’s grand scheme of things.  He doubted his mother planned for her intervention.  Talia underestimated the depths of other people’s love frequently._

_This small woman had been more dangerous than the ninja, the trained and empowered followers, or his mother’s favorite experiments because she attacked out of love, not instinct, greed, or loyalty.  She should have been the one spared above all the others tonight.  Instead, she died at Damian’s hand while the manbats and ninja promptly faded back into the dark._

_Now it was just Damian and Benjamin, the unconscious and the dead.  Anything still capable of movement had disappeared._

_Damian had passed his mother’s test.  He was a murderer once more._

_A small hand grasped at Damian’s shirttail as Benjamin moved closer once more.  “Damian?”  Benjamin sounded tired and small as he hovered at Damian’s side.  “Is it over now?”_

_He held out his arms automatically.  “Yes, ahki.  It is over now.”_

*****

_Damian settled the sleeping child in his lap to clean his and the enemy’s blood from Benjamin.  Somehow the boy slept through the assault on his face, and Damian would have been dead a dozen times over if he had slept that deeply as a child.  There had been no older brother to guard Damian’s sleep.  Benjamin twitched when Damian manhandled his arms free of the stained shirt, but Damian stroked his hair with a free hand until the boy settled._

_Damian waited another minute to lay Benjamin down on the low couch.  If anything could wake his younger brother, it would be the perception of abandonment._

_Gently, Damian laid a blanket from his own bed over the younger boy, and crouched to place a kiss on his brother's brow.  Grayson had taught him this.  Grayson would understand.  The math was simple; Benjamin was alive . . . Grayson and the others were brain dead.  Yes, Grayson would understand._

_Damian hoped._

_Quietly, he crossed the room and let himself out of his bedchamber.  He closed the door behind him, locking it with a touch of the keypad, and leaned against it carefully.  There was no protest from within; Benjamin slept on._

_Damian sank, sliding down the door as the events of the evening finally caught up with the teenager._

_"Todd.  Drake.  Block the other door," Damian choked out.  He didn't want his mother's company just now.  He didn't want the justification for the test of Leviathan.  He didn’t want his grandfather to visit with further missions and theories.  He simply wanted to be left alone._

_Not completely alone._

_Damian crawled over to where Grayson sat docilely on the floor.  He lunged forward, wrapping both arms tight around his brother, and ignoring the burn of his shoulder.  It had somewhat clotted from the pressure of carrying Benjamin back, and injuries were nothing to an al Ghul.  There was just one thing that Damian wanted now . . . one thing he could never have._

_Grayson's arms remained limp at the acrobat's sides.  His balance was compromised by Damian's momentum, and it was only in pulling back sharply that Damian kept the both of them from toppling.  And when Damian glanced upward through long genetically-perfect lashes, there is nothing in Grayson's blue eyes—no friendly spark, no compassion, not even disappointment._

_Damian swore softly, and turned in the circle of the man's legs so that he would not have to see those empty eyes.  Damian pulled his knees close to his chest, and posed Grayson's legs similarly on either side of him.  He pulled his brother's arms around him as if embraced, and leaned forward so that Grayson's chin came to rest against the back of Damian's head._

_Damian did not allow himself this comfort before.  In the beginning, he was guilty.  Then it became a weakness, and even now—Damian continued to grow.  Soon, the young assassin would become taller than Grayson._

_Tomorrow, he would let go as he should have in the beginning and let go of childish things.  He would pocket the pills, take his little brother, and lock the doors behind him so that his comrades could die with dignity._

_Tomorrow he would be a man._

_Tomorrow he would serve in Ra’s al Ghul’s organization and overthrow his mother._

_Tomorrow, Damian would be everything he had been created to be (assassin, heir, traitor, and always greater than the sum of his parts), but not tonight.  Tonight . . ._

_Just this once . . ._

_. . . here, where no one could see . . ._

_Damian would wear his first brother like armor and pretend that nothing had changed._

*****

“Brother, I have sinned.”


End file.
